Sentry

I watched for prowlers
in the night. Underneath the second floor balcony,
they came, littering
our flower beds
with stained underpants,
flattened cans of Coors dotting
the barren sandy soil.

You watched me too,
looking down the eaves,
seeing my cold breath
against the moon,
the ocean groaning
its background tune.

Should I invite them up?
I asked. But your puzzled
frown, a faked innocence,
stopped me.

I knew your friends were bold,
but your own promises
hurt. So what
if they clambered down
the steps when I approached?
I could see things.
I felt things.

Did you think their bronzed
muscles turned invisible,
as their loins glistened
with more than dew?
Could I not see your fingerprints,
glowing on their inner thighs?